


They've Got Your Number (But You're Safe With Me)

by orphan_account



Series: White Picket Fence, I'll Put A Rock On Your Finger [5]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Best of Intentions, Celebrity Status, Cuddling, Domestic, Gossip, Harassment, Improper Consumption of Benzos, M/M, Married Life, Mentions of a Complex Assassin Network Kind of Stylized After Law Firms, Misguided Attempts at Dissuading Anxiety, Morning Routines, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Dick Grayson, Paparazzi, Sugary sweet, Unusual Displays of Affection, Which is Addressed, Yoga, Yoga Used to Shock and Arouse, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 08:19:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18426672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dick is being harassed by paparazzi, but Slade's there to keep him company.





	They've Got Your Number (But You're Safe With Me)

**Author's Note:**

> I have 10000 ideas for 10000 in progress works but how about I just keep updating this married AU that was supposed to be a one-off last August. Why have a one-off when you can steadily keep updating wish fulfillment for seven months. 
> 
> That being said, I started this AU when I was studying for the LSAT and now I'm making arrangements for my move to a different state for law school! What a weird fucking correlation! Maybe I should come up with a wrap-up which I can dramatically publish the day that I move?

When Dick woke up, he was, predictably alone. And trapped underneath sheets Slade tucked tightly and with hospital corners. Once, he’d asked Slade (very politely, at that) to refrain from plastering Dick to the mattress and then leaving him to wiggle free. Slade responded by waking Dick up at 5 am, regardless of what time Dick stumbled to bed so that Slade could make the bed. And then he wouldn’t let Dick back on the bed, and their couch was hardly a substitute for their California King. It was the split, electric, adjustable-softness kind since Slade enjoyed sleeping on rocks and Dick preferred mattresses.

And so, since then, Dick deemed himself content with being pressed into the mattress with the force of an ex-military man’s Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. It wasn’t that bad; Dick grew to like the tightness and the weight of the blankets for those hours he was left without another body to shelter him instead.

Dick painstakingly wiggled out from under the sheets, conscious of pulling a muscle, which had happened only a week prior while trying to escape this prison of his legal husband’s design, and stretched. He tiptoed across the carpeted floor to the bathroom, relieving himself and brushing his teeth before returning to the bedroom. There, he tossed on a pair of boxer briefs, tugged his yoga mat from the closet shelf, and began his morning routine.

 Slade re-entered the room while Dick was only in Dwi Pada Viparita Dandasana. Normally, Dick didn’t see Slade until Dick slunk to the kitchen for coffee after his post-routine shower (unless, of course, Slade joined him in his shower. In which case, Dick’s routine extended several minutes longer.) Despite the rare break in Slade’s morning ritual, Dick did not break form.

“Don’t stress your shoulder joints, kid,” Slade chided as he strode past Dick to the window and peeked around the curtain. “You jerk them around enough as it is. If you’d suck it up and take the ser—”

“No,” Dick asserted. “And you’re interrupting my breathing.” Dick tucked his legs underneath himself and compacted into Kapotasana. He gripped his calves and exhaled.

Slade wandered over, dragging his fingertips from Dick’s navel to trace the pronounced ridges of Dick’s ribcage. Dick’s breathing hitched, and then he grunted his malcontent.

“Excuse you,” Dick clipped, carefully walking out of the position to lay on his back. He looked up at Slade who just smirked.  

“Don’t pretend you aren’t a peacock,” Slade cooed. Dick’s eyes flashed bright and he rolled on his stomach, turned his fingers back towards his torso, and lifted himself up on his hands so that his body made a horizontal line parallel to the floor.

“Peacock pose!” Dick crowed.

Slade snorted, but before Dick could so much as smirk over this small concession, he heard an engine start, presumably from the driveway.

Except, the driveway was a near mile long stretch of dirt and packed gravel. Moreover, the McMansion Slade purchased for him and Dick was a touch more remote than even Wayne Manor. There shouldn’t be traffic outside. And if there were, Bruce should have seen the bustle first and could have at least _called_.

Dick scrambled to his feet, walked to the window with Slade following closely behind, and threw back the curtain.

Outside, there was a small army of photographers and tabloid and blog writers, all vying for a picture of Dick’s scowl as he glared down at them. Most of their cars were still running. Dick knew from experience that it was so they could make a quick escape on the off chance their subject or their subject’s bodyguards lashed out at the invasion of privacy. Dick would never lash out at civilians. Dick was also considering a change in policy as he took in the sheer number of strangers on his marital estate.

“Slade,” Dick hissed. He didn’t spare Slade a glance when Slade placed a hand on his bare back. He was still grimacing at the throng below. “Slade, how the fuck do they even know I’m here?”

“Little bird,” Slade murmured, voice lilted to be patronizing. He was displeased. He was displeased and he, for whatever reason, blamed Dick. “Do you remember your expensive Uber ride the other day?”

Yes, Dick remembered. He closed his eyes and hummed in regretful understanding. A few nights prior, Dick had gotten injured and wasn’t able to get himself home. The hospital wasn’t an option due to the nature of the injuries and his recognizable face. And so, he’d changed into civilian clothes behind a dumpster, pretended to be heinously drunk, and ordered an Uber back to his and Slade’s home.

Slade hadn’t been home, but Wintergreen had dinner ready, and he was more than pleased to practice his field medicine on someone without a healing factor. Dinner had been shepherd’s pie. It was delicious, especially after the hydrocodone kicked in. Wintergreen kept enough narcotics to kill several elephants, to accommodate Slade’s metabolism, but Dick was more impressed Wintergreen was able to convince Slade to take any at all.

Dick liked Wintergreen.

Dick told Slade as such, as he let the curtains fall back into place. Beneath them, far below their towering bedroom window, Dick could hear the jeering cries of the worst sort of entertainment culture.   

Slade snorted and cocked his head.

“Do you want me to invite him over? I can. Another older, seasoned man entering Wayne’s eldest’s shiny new mansion mere miles from his father is precisely what your image needs right now,” Slade mused.

“They don’t know it’s mine,” Dick protested, practically pleading as if Slade could change the facts as they were. “As far as they know, I’m visiting a friend. A family friend. For several days at a time. In my underwear.” Dick felt he was at least somewhat convincing, considering Selina was a family friend and Bruce oft spent days with her in a similar state.

“Property ownership is public record,” Slade warned him, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “So are marriage licenses. I have no doubt the squalor has at least done the bare minimum research required to catch you in something salacious if they went so far as to purchase information from a rideshare driver regarding your home address.”

“I’m sorry, the house is in my name?” Dick asked, rearing back from Slade with furrowed brows. “Slade, what the fuck. Why would you put it in my name? I’m not making payments, should I be making payments?” Dick’s eyes widened, and he pulled at his hair. “I’ve never paid a mortgage before. I don’t know if I’m ready to have a mortgage. I feel like if I get a mortgage, I also need to grow a salt and pepper beard.”

“Kid,” Slade interrupted, eye rolling so far that for a moment, Dick wondered if it would snap free from its socket. “Your credit score was abysmal; a diversified credit portfolio should boost it. I had to cosign, of course, but that was of little consequence. I have an excellent credit score.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t been paying—” Dick protested before Slade cut him off again.

“No, but I have. As a gift, I’ve only used fees I’ve collected on referrals, rather than contracts I complete myself. You’ll find most of the household expenses come from that account.”

Dick’s jaw dropped, as did his hands from his hair. “You do _referrals_? For _murder_? Slade, _what the fuck_!” He waved his hands emphatically, to emphasize his emphatic horror at the very concept that assassins had lead referral systems.

“Is this really the conversation you want to be having right now? Given the circumstances?” Slade scoffed before he pushed off the wall and left the room. Dick made the mistake of peeking past the curtains again, only to jump back when the jeering rose to meet his brief reappearance.  

Slade re-entered the room, several minutes later, this time with two coffee mugs.

“Okay, so, the Uber driver sold my address,” Dick recounted, accepting the mug that Slade offered. The crowd was still calling up, despite Dick’s quick exit this time around. Dick chose to ignore them. “And they may have dug around and turned up our deed and marriage license. Have they seen you?” Dick took a sip. It wasn’t coffee at all. It was an herbal tea, with plenty of sugar, and just enough of a chalky after-texture to indicate Slade crushed Lorazepam into his food. Again.

“Let me know if you drug my food, Slade. Informed consent has to be informed,” Dick reminded him, even as Dick continued to drink from the mug. “Thank you, though, I appreciate it.” And he did. Slade had the best of intentions, at least when it came to Dick. Usually. Execution left plenty to be desired, but it's the thought that counts. 

 Slade cocked his head. “Yes, some of them saw me. I went out for the morning paper and noticed the delivery boy looked very much like a local reporter. That was just the first wave.” Slade prowled closer and wrapped an arm around Dick’s waist. Dick was so consumed glaring at Slade’s full mug of actual coffee, the taste of which he was still craving, that he almost didn’t notice how Slade pulled him away from the window until Slade had tugged him so close that their hips pressed against each other. Dick scowled up at Slade.

“The paper is delivered at, like, 4 am,” he accused. “You wake up at 4 am.” Slade blinked.

“4:47 am. I pick it up after I make the coffee.”

Dick shook his head, resting his free hand on Slade’s bicep. “You make the coffee right before I wake up, it’s still brewing when I get out of bed. I can smell it during my routine.”

“No,” Slade corrected him, patting Dick’s thigh until Dick rolled his eyes.

“I’m drinking tea,” Dick complained, taking a long, slurping sip from his mug. Slade was unphased.

“Then put it down.” Slade patted Dick’s thigh again as if Dick were a dog that just needed insistent instruction. And maybe Dick was, because he obediently put his mug on the nearest flat surface (their dresser), jumped up, and wrapped his legs around Slade’s waist. Slade took a sip of his coffee, unmoved by Dick’s maneuver. Dick was certainly moved, which was no doubt Slade’s intent.

“After I make the coffee, I fetch the paper, read it, run 17 miles, finish the rest of the coffee, shower, and then make a second pot for you.”

“Oh,” Dick frowned, absently massaging Slade’s bicep where his hand still rested. “That’s sweet.”

“No,” Slade corrected him again. “It’s strategic. You’re a menace when you wake up. An absolute terror. I do it for my own safety.”

Dick laughed in delight before baring his teeth and growling. It sounded more like a purr.

And then several raps on the front door startled Dick into scrambling up Slade’s body in surprise. By the time he perched on Slade’s shoulders, ankles crossed on Slade’s torso, the knocking hadn’t ceased.

“Should we answer, little bird?” Slade asked, carefully managing his coffee and Dick’s whole entire body at the same time.

“No,” Dick insisted, no longer startled but taking 0 initiative in dismounting Slade. “They’ll get tired and go away eventually. They usually do. They don’t know you’re an assassin, right?”

Slade hummed, stealing a sip from his coffee even though Dick was shifting into a more comfortable position on his shoulders. “It’s unlikely with only my name and face. To know I’m an assassin takes a better network than Gotham University alumni. They’ll probably assume you’re acting out against your father, and I’m sure they’re already salivating over the inevitable divorce proceedings that follow when young, rich twinks hitch themselves to older, rich men who know how to ignore them just like their daddies do.”

“Oh,” Dick said, unsure of how else to respond. “I didn’t finish morning yoga.”

“And?” Slade asked. “If you want to wait this out, then we’re stranded here for the day, or at least until Wayne notices and calls the police. You have plenty of time.”

“Right,” Dick said, braiding strands of Slade’s hair and relishing in the growing effects of his tea diluted benzo dosage. “So, do you want to work our way through the Kama Sutra until we can go grocery shopping? We’re out of tomatoes.”

Slade grunted. “Tomatoes aren’t on the list.”

“What list?” Dick asked, turning three braids he created into an itty-bitty French braid.

“There’s a list on the refrigerator, it’s a grocery list. You write down something you need. Wintergreen usually manifests it.”

“That’s not what a grocery list is, Slade,” Dick chided, even as Slade began carrying him to one of the guest rooms. At first, Dick was curious, but once they entered, he was reminded that this guest room didn’t have windows. Slade turned his back to the bed and allowed Dick to tip himself off Slade’s shoulders, onto the soft mattress.

Dick grinned up at Slade as Slade set his mug on the nightstand.  

“Alright, kid,” Slade murmured, pulling his shirt off. “We’re working our way to the grocery store. Dealer’s choice.”

They only made it through six (really, six and a half) poses before Dick fell asleep. As Dick slept, Slade picked up their abandoned mugs and wandered into the kitchen to add them to the dishwasher. While there, safely out of earshot of Dick, he called Wintergreen.

By the time Dick woke up, the reporters had vanished, and there were fresh tomatoes in a basket on the counter. Dick checked the local news on his phone, and then he scrolled through tabloids and fan sites. There was not a word about his partner or living arrangement. Nothing, no photos, no salacious headlines. It was if the reporters hadn’t ever been there at all.

Dick ate a tomato raw and then went back to sleep.

 

 

[Heads up, I have a Tumblr again!](https://overratedantiherowrites.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, but hear me out: an assassin referral network similar to how law firms function. It's already so hard to snag assassin services unless you're in the right circles, so imagine finding an assassin only to realize that the assassin will not take your contract for whatever reason, BUT, do not fret, they will refer to ANOTHER, more appropriate assassin and if that assassin takes the contract, he/she/they split the fee with the referring assassin. That way you, the consumer, have your needs met and your friendly, neighborhood assassins capitalize on their very specific network while also eliminating competition by incentivizing specialization. 
> 
> I am so excited about this idea, pls hit me up if you know someone in the field so that I can pitch it.


End file.
